Heroes
by PassiveBot
Summary: Ten years after the original Overwatch has been disbanded, the few members who still survive find themselves prey, hunted down one by one by a new enemy, and now they must save their own from this foe before time runs out. A more realistic approach to Overwatch's world.
1. Shimada, Hanzo

Hello everybody, this is the first chapter of this story. This story was written in collaboration with the very talented and beautiful author Bol, this is only the intro chapter so stay tuned for more to come!

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Hanzo Shimada was not a young man, but he felt much older than he was, his features drawn long with the weight of past sins long absolved. His hands had been made meticulous from the blood that had graced them years ago, his long hair slicked back was streaked with grey. He wore a bespoke suit and had grown out his beard, but when he closed his eyes he still could see himself in his youth, swathed in a kimono with his bow nocked and ready to be loosed.

He looked up at the mirror, the wrinkles under his eyes had deepened from before. He was afraid, though he did not look the part, but he had not stopped being afraid since he'd received the warning nearly three hours ago. Three words: You're next, run.

He stepped away from the mirror, straightening out his lapels and cuffs, smoothing back a stray hair. The door to the bathroom slid shut, indistinguishable from the rest of the wall, as the man took calm strides out and into his private office. Footsteps echoed loudly in the quiet room, the only sound as Hanzo walked past lines of awards and trophies framed up on his office walls.

At the furthest wall, a plane of wide windows that offered a perfect view of Tokyo's neon skyline, was a single glass case that stood right behind his desk, and inside it was a bow and quiver that he'd had put on display for remembrance sake ten years ago.

As he walked, Hanzo pressed his index finger into a tiny mic on his chest. "Record a message for me, recipients: Winston."

A muffled scream floated up from somewhere, he paid it no mind.

"This is Hanzo Shimada, retired Overwatch agent. I received a warning three hours before from an anonymous sender, warning of a presumed attempt on my life."

He laid flat his palms on the glass, it glowed briefly as his fingerprints were scanned, before it parted with a hiss, a cloud of steam as the sterilised environment inside the case was introduced to outside air.

"And true to this third party's word, an intruder entered the premises of Shimada United twelve minutes ago. In that time he has murdered half my security, all efforts to dissuade him have been unsuccessful."

The Bow seemed to call to him, the way it twinkled in the dark, it knew him and he had betrayed it, locking it away for so long, and it knew he needed it back. He reached forward gingerly, wrapping one hand around the bow's handle, the metal seemed to breathe and pulse in unison with his skin.

A voice, his assistant, outside, pleading for her life. "He's inside, please-"

A bang.

Hanzo held the bow in front of him, all the familiar muscles remembering their uses again. He tipped his magnetic floating desk over for cover, setting his quiver against it and pulling out one long metal arrow. His hands moved with practiced familiarity as he gracefully nocked it.

"He is outside now. Winston, I want you to transfer my compensation from the UN to my family, make arrangements to keep them safe. Let my last act be a noble one."

His eyes slid closed as he psyched himself, feeling the bow's metal snarling under his fingertips, the arrow's fletching biting into his skin.

When he looked up the round double doors to his office had a blood splatter across the other side.

"It is undeniable to me."

Hanzo Shimada exhaled deeply, the screams and the gunshots outside seemed to fade out as he drew the bow string back, raising it to his chest as he crouched behind the overturned desk. There was a shadow at the door.

"We are all prey now. End Message, send."


	2. McCree, Jesse

So, chapter 2, hopefully the last chapter set the tone right and this one will give a bit of intro into another character, Jesse McCree. Enjoy the new chapter!

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McCree had been on both sides of the law in his time, and in his time he'd been in dozens of less-than-perfect situations, most note-worthy of such was the time he had got holed up in a collapsed sewer tunnel with three bullets in his gun and four angry blokes he had slighted waiting for him outside. Maybe it was his time with Overwatch, but lately he found himself disgusted by the reaches of the places he often found his new occupation entrenched him in, something that was a foreign concept to him, he'd seen plenty worse when he ran with gangsters.

And so he sat at the counter of perhaps the swankiest pub in New Boston he'd ever had the pleasure to breathe in the stench of, and he'd been into many pubs in his youth. Most of the chairs and tables were flipped and broken, those that weren't lay there collecting dust over an inch thick layer of stains and strange grime. The counter wasn't much better, the glass was only clean where it was within reach of the bartender, a balding, squat fellow, anything otherwise was similarly dirty. McCree did his best impression of appearing casual and relaxed as he took a swig of fiery liquor, careful not to let even his hardened lip graze the oily edge of the glass.

There weren't many other people in the pub, expectedly, and those that were weren't drinking. A passed out man in the corner, his pockets emptied, most probably not by him, a shady fellow standing by the door to the toilet, no doubt with a collection of strange pills and tablets for sale in that coat of his, the bartender and McCree. He made a face as he set the glass down, even he had standards, not very high ones but still.

A high pitched electronic whine from outside, a light shone through the gaps in the dirt on the windows and the frames shuddered as the engine of a hovercar roared. McCree sat with his back to the door, so he couldn't see but could hear the car pull up, the door opened and boots on the ground. The doors to the pub were pulled open and the sound of several individuals, one, two, three, four pairs of feet.

The bartender hurriedly stood, plastering on a nervous smile. "Ah, Mr. Ick! Pleasure to have you here, how's the family?"

A voice, scarred and arrogant, "They'll be coming after your ass if I don't find a drink with my name on it."

Mr. Ick, just the man he was looking for, a big player in the Boston Gangs that ruled the suburbs, Ick was a member of a gang that called themselves the 'Threads'. McCree didn't turn to look, keeping to his drink that swirled in strange orange spirals in the dirty glass. He wrapped a hand around the glass, with his thumb he wiped off a patch of grime, and he lifted up the glass so he saw the reflection of the pub in the planes of crystal, surveying his environment. Mr. Ick, a thin man in a suit with a scar running down the side of his head and across his throat and an ugly sneer on his snout. Accompanying him were three men, hired muscle no doubt, tall, muscle bound rottweilers on two legs in suits that they had not picked out for themselves, high and tight haircuts on their crowns and sunglasses hiding their eyes. There were guns holstered at his belt. Three bodyguards, he could take three.

After this contract it would be troublesome for him to stay in New Boston. The gangs didn't care much about a few missing drug runners but bagging a prize like Mr. Ick, once he did that he'd have to play smart to make sure he didn't end up in a body bag.

His cape would hide enough movement for him to make the first move, or that was his plan at least. Mr. Ick was sitting down on a longue chair that hadn't been there before, one of the guards standing behind him, the other at his side, and the last beside the doorway. He set the glass down with a soft clink, pulling out a note and sliding it over the counter to the barman, whispering, "If I were you, I'd make like a snake and get of here."

The bartender scoffed, "Ha, tourists, you need to learn a thing or two about New Boston."

McCree had stopped listening long ago, his left hand, a metal prosthetic which whirred softly, wrapped around the glass loosely, his other good hand sliding down to the holster at his side. Mr. Ick talked loudly on a headset implanted into his palm which he held against his ear like a pretend-phone, "Remember, ask for Mr. Claw, make sure he knows what happens to people who mess with the Threads."

One of the bodyguards noticed McCree's hand moving down to a barely concealed gun. He began to reach down to his own pistol, mouth already forming the words to get his ward out of here. But unfortunately for the bodyguard, he hadn't had nearly enough practice with a gun to be as fast on the draw as his adversary.

McCree spun around in his seat, sliding his Peacekeeper from its holster and as he raised the gun, loosed one bullet, the shot reverberating around the pub and leaving ears ringing, the bullet catching the first bodyguard in the foot.

 _One bullet._

The muscle man keeled over, crashing into another table that collapsed under his weight. Mr. Ick flinched in surprise, his call abruptly pausing, one of the bodyguards looked uncomprehendingly while the other obviously more experience one drew his pistol and raised it to fire, before two more shots rang out, one catching him in the chest and the other clipping his temple.

 _Three bullets._

The second bodyguard fell backwards, his black tie trailing before him, and the third didn't bother with guns, just lunging at the gunman. McCree had pulled the trigger halfway when the third bodyguard grabbed his wrist roughly, pointing the gun skywards but not loosing a shot. The cowboy's face contorted into a grimace as he struggled with the bodyguard for a moment, before his metal hand raised the glass on the counter and smashed it down on the bodyguard's head and splashing liquor over the two of them. As the man collapsed, his scalp bleeding, a shot found its place in his calf.

 _Four bullets._

The man screamed in agony, but a shot like that wouldn't kill him, just make sure he didn't chase after anybody for a while. Mr. Ick was frozen to his seat, fumbling for his own gun with clammy hands. McCree glanced to the side and saw the first bodyguard he had shot in the foot beginning to rise with difficulty, and shot the man's right arm, eliciting a scream as a gun clattered to the floor.

 _Five bullets._

Mr. Ick dropped his pistol, obviously desperate to appeal to McCree. That frightened look didn't sit well on a face of scars like that. McCree was still at his seat but was standing now gun levelled at Mr. Ick's face as the gangster stammered, "Hey, it doesn't have to go down like this. Bounty hunter, right? I heard about the price on my head, what was it? Fifty-k? Seventy-k?"

McCree raised an eyebrow, gruffly muttering, "Seventy-five."

Mr. Ick pulled out his wallet, beginning to ladel out wads of notes. "I've got two hundred-k right here, millions in my bank. Let me go and I"ll quadruple whatever you'r'e being paid, I swear it. My money's as good as their's."

The cowboy growled with perhaps the slightest hint of mirth, "I ain't working this here occupation for the money. Its a public service."

"I swear, I have five hundred million in my account right now! Half! I give you half!"

"Pleasure doing business with you."

 _Six bullets._

Mr. Ick gave the loudest scream he'd ever heard a man give, head flung back and clutching his knee in pain. As he yowled like a cat, McCree raised the Peacekeeper and popped the barrel out, six empty shells tumbling out and clattering on the floor. "Quit your whining, scumbag, be happy I didn't put that one between your eyes."

Only screams in return. He grabbed the gangster roughly by his lapel, ripping off his tie and gagging the meekly writhing man with it, stifling screams to muffled sounds of protest. As he dragged Mr. Ick onto the floor, he picked up his wallet along, taking a small fee of several thousand dollar notes, before throwing it over the counter at the bartender which he knew was still cowering there. More than enough compensation to shut him up, and hopefully enough to renovate this pit he called a pub.

* * *

"One Hudson Wicks," McCree growled as he held the shell shocked gangster up by his collar, pushing him against the counter. "Otherwise known as Mr. Ick."

A short trip down to the nearest police station. McCree had to take a few difficult side paths to avoid the crowd and the stares that carrying a body generally attracted. Even when he reached the station he collected a few frightened glances from a woman filing some report and a few of the younger officers.

Behind the counter was a police officer with a grey handlebar moustache hidden behind a newspaper. The aging man looked over his papers at the face of the , cross checked it with his own computer screen where he had pulled up a mugshot. "Good job again, Mr. East, must be a record. That's what, five this month?"

"Five," he confirmed, standing back as two officers came to take Mr. Ick into custody. "And second Thread I've bagged. Seems like I'll have to move soon, the hounds are getting real familiar with my scent, if you catch my drift."

The police officer, an older fellow whose nametag read Richards J., smirked, typing something into his computer and the mugshot tucking itself away. "Well, I am legally obliged to tell you the New Boston PD is willing to offer you protection for your services."

His services _technically_ weren't legal, but here in the suburbs of New Boston things were quite a bit different from the clean utopias that the rules flowed from. The arrangement they had was simple, the PD gives him a name, Jonathan M. East, his alias, brings in that particular individual, as any good concerned citizen would do when presented with a mysteriously wounded and shot criminal perpetrator. And if he was lucky, some taxpayers' money would mysteriously find its way into his account.

Officer Richards muttered disapprovingly, "You're doing good work here, son, commissioner doesn't pay you half of what he should for what you do."

"I'm happy with what I get," he shrugged. He didn't mention the little sum of eight thousand he'd liberated from Mr. Ick's wallet. "The usual arrangement for the money then?"

Richards didn't reply him, eyes glued to the papers in his hands. McCree shook his head, from his experience media wasn't a very trustworthy source of news. He stepped aside as two other officers came and handcuffed Mr. Ick to be taken away to wherever they wanted him to be taken away to. McCree watched the softly twitching Thread being dragged away, absentmindedly asking, "Interesting headlines lately?"

The man gave a low harrumph, "You wouldn't believe it. A shooting in Tokyo and it doesn't even make the frontlines, instead some bull about some actress' sex scandal."

"A shooting?" Not that he was particularly interested beyond small talk. Shit went down all over the world, especially in Asia with the conflict at the India-China Border where that Vishkar Corporation was making land grabs across the fence.

"Mmhmm," the man nodded, the handlebar on his snout bobbing up and down. " _Lone gunman entered Shimada United last night, wounds twenty eight, kills fifteen, before detonating a bomb on the premises."_

McCree tensed at the name. Hanzo Shimada was one of the few Overwatch members who went public with his identity after they dissolved, using his name to restore the Shimada clan and founding the legal front of a multi-million dollar corporation that, though it began with a toy line of high quality Overwatch figurines, but in a decade it had found its way into private defence contracts, manufacturing and shipping. All of it was a cover up for the Clan's criminal side of assassinations, contraband weapons, drugs and dealings with triads.

Richards continued, looking down over his nose. " _CEO of Shimada United, Hanzo Shimada, was found in the burning wreckage of his office, unconscious and suffering from potentially fatal wounds_. Only exciting thing on the news and it shows up on fourth page."

McCree silently gave a nod, suddenly feeling an overpowering need to get somewhere safe, maybe hole up in his apartment for a few days. He nodded to an officer who waved to him, making an effort to retain his nonchalance though under this guise he felt as if someone had gripped his heart in a vice grip. He did feel some sense of mourning for Hanzo, they had been friends years ago though they had not kept in touch, but most of all he felt fear. This was undoubtedly an assassination attempt, albeit a very messy one, but as head of the Shimada Clan, a veritable criminal organisation and a giant corporation, Hanzo was sure to have some enemies. But he was also ex-Overwatch, and that was what worried Jesse, because if someone was targeting Overwatch agents…

 _No_. Just a coincidence, just an unfortunate attempt on a friends life by some disgruntled rivals. Nothing more.

Jess McCree stepped through the doors of the police department, pulling a cigar out of his coat and biting down on it softly, pulling out a box of matches from the same pocket. He looked around as he lighted the cigar, eyeing the drivers on the street, the pedestrians who returned his glances furtively, all the familiar instincts returning as he looked up to the eves and roofs for the slightest hint of movement.

 _Just a coincidence, nothing more_.

His hand slid down to his Peacekeeper holstered at his side even as he reassured himself of his own safety. _Nothing more than that._

But he had to be sure.


	3. Amari, Ana

Okay, so we've been on hiatus for quite a while now, thought it would be a nice idea to take it back a notch and chill a bit, this chapter we tried to avoid too many details and keep it mysterious-like.

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"Have you seen the news lately, ma'am?" came a cultured voice that was as if filtered and processed and heard through an old radio.

"Hmph," came the reply, a voice that was old and weathered more than it should be.

Ana Amari reclined in her wheelchair, the backrest whirring as it reclined slightly and a plethora of machines incorporated under the polished wooden exterior, fed by two tubes in her right arm, cleaned out her blood and pumped it back in. During last few days of Overwatch she had lost her kidneys, liver, gall bladder and a large portion of her large intestines in the final firefight, now she was confined to this wheelchair that kept her alive. She had declined offers to regenerate or replace her missing organs, much to the confusion of media and the world while it still cared about Overwatch, a bitter reminder of their past.

The middle eastern woman had tanned skin and far more wrinkles than a fifty year old should have, and if one didn't know her they would mistake the sound of the machines that kept her alive as her own breathing. Her eyes, the left one with a faded tattoo stretching down her cheek, barely glanced up as her Omnic butler pushed in a cart topped with IV bags and a selection of pill bottles.

The butler was black and white as if wearing a suit, and atop his head sat a single white eye that whirred and could shrink or dilate. Johnson was his name, and for eight years he had served Ana restlessly, now his mechanical voice and British accent were more than familiar to her.

"A terrorist attack in Japan! Fifteen dead, almost thirty wounded, dreadful business, and to Shimada United of all places, just positively dreadful."

"Yes it is," she muttered in agreement as she watched the display on her desk top with the very same headlines. The Omnic set down a silver tray next to the display with a measured out amount of pills and a glass of water.

Her eyes scanned down the page, her lips making the motions without any sound.

 _Hanzo Shimada taken to Zeitaku General Hospital, gunshot wounds in the chest and abdomen, condition critical._

What followed next were a few shots from the ground floor of Shimada United, the windows of the top floor blown out and flames billowing out, the glow of sirens and camera flashes painting the sides of the glass and chrome office building.

 _Local authorities claim this was a terrorist attack meant to destabilise the region while Shimada United representative claim this was the work of Korean competitors, while others cite ulterior sources._

Johnson walked around behind her and replaced her IV drip. Further down in the page was an interview in Japan with some minister of Defence, translated into English.

The host, a younger man with slicked back white hair, asked with mock scepticism as he looked down at a script, _Now a contact of our's claims this was the work of the terrorist, '_ 76 _', and as we know 76 only targets Overwatch-affiliated organisations. What is your opinion on that?_

The minister began, _It is undoubtedly the work of a terrorist, but if it is 76, well, we are not ruling out any possibilities at this point. Hanzo Shimada was a known Overwatch agent, one of the few who went public, and we applaud him for his past sacrifices and contributions to the safety of Japan and the world, but his past_ would _make him a target for enemies such as 76. The unfortunate price paid by those that have so well defended our safety and freedom, however, as I said, this is just a possibility, and until further investigation we will not draw any conclusions._

The minister would go on to state that Japan would not tolerate any attacks to the safety of its citizens and would retaliate with its full capability. Ana grimaced as she tipped her head back and swallowed nearly a dozen different pills and tablets that left a bitter taste on her tongue, only to be washed down with the water.

That would make the third Overwatch agent in the past six months, first it was Torbjörn who was found dead in a fire that had engulfed half of Helsinki, except that the doors to his burnt out workshop had been barred from the outside by collapsed brick and cement walls of neighbouring buildings, then Reinhardt who went dark after going back to a childhood home in rural Germany, the giant man apparently disappearing off the face of the Earth, and now Hanzo. Perhaps it could be a cruel coincidence that the members of the old Overwatch strike team were meeting their ends after so long.

But she had to be sure.

She motioned to her butler, "Johnson, dear, would you kindly make a few calls for me? "

"Of course, ma'am."

"Phone Mr. Clint, tell him Ana is calling in a favour, and ask him to help me contact Jesse McCree, Lena Oxton and Angela Ziegler. If they're still alive."

* * *

Okay, so by now if you're reading you're probably wondering wtf why the difference between my story and the game? Well, to tell the truth, I had Ana Amari as a character a while before the hero came out and revealed her to still be alive and kicking as a sniper. I was a bit miffed at first but me and Bol have decided to incorporate our version of Ana, a disabled, scarred Ana, and the game's Ana together in a future character arc that we have high hopes for!


	4. Pseudonym

New chapter for this story, me and Bol have our exams to study for this year, I'm sure many of you do too but are, like us, wasting time on this website. But after all, time spent on things we love is time well spent, and we love these stories. So, without further ado, enjoy this new chapter, written differently from our previous ones and a slightly longer one as well. Enjoy!

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Christelle Albie brushed back her long brunette hair behind one ear, wearing a radiant smile as she took a seat at a table of a London street coffee shop, Cherry Café, all polished wood and painted glass, and from her years spent living here, the breakfast was amazing. But the breakfast menu wasn't the reason for her smile.

She pushed open the door, a little bell hung on it ringing, stepping out of the cold winter street and into the warm cozy interior. The place was just about as crowded as coffee shops ever get, even at rush hour, a glass and steel counter showing off a selection of cakes while a blackboard and chalk menu hung on the wall behind. Her eyes searched and quickly found a man sitting at a table already reading a book with a cup of golden-brown coffee set on a plate. He was young, on the cusp of his thirties, tousled black hair swept back and his short beard was kept short by constant grooming. He looked up as she walked over, broke out in a grin, with the accent of a London native he laughed, "Look who's finally up."

"Only fashionably late," she retorted with the slightest hint of an accent, "Traffic on the tube was unbearable, rush hour and all."

"'Fashionably', hah, I'm starving right now because of you. Shouldn't keep people waiting you know?" Sam chuckled, setting his book down in his lap.

"And _you_ shouldn't rush a lady," Christelle shot back playfully.

She had met Samson Anders a month ago at a charity event for refugees displaced by the conflict in Asia, he had seen a beautiful, generous and kind woman with a warm heart that had immediately captivated him. They exchanged numbers, texted each other like sixteen year olds for a while, now they met for coffee every week at Cherry Café.

Outside the painted windows were the shapes of cars hovering down the street and pedestrians bustling down the streets, wearing jackets and the tourists wearing winter fleece against the December air, enjoying the snowy weather, a record amount of snowfall since the end of the Omnic crisis. An early Christmas present, news agencies said, lowest temperatures recorded in years after the global temperature spikes following the wars.

Christelle ordered a Cinnamon Latte, she'd probably order a pair of eggs with chicken sausages later, the same thing she ordered every Saturday when she met Sam, they'd spend a few hours together in each other's company before taking walking to a tube station a few blocks down.

But today, she could tell, something was different. It wasn't an obvious thing, more a premonition, a feeling. Today, something was going to happen, something was going to change, and she tried to tell herself she was being immature for someone her age to believe in strange vibes, but today was going to be exciting, somehow, and she knew it.

Sam was looking rather more kempt than usual, a little more product in his hair, wearing a nice collared white shirt with a favourite burgundy coat hung on his back rest, she even smelled a little cologne on him today. He had already drunk more than half his coffee in waiting for her, nervously waiting in anticipation, she caught him glancing her way more often than usual, tapping his fingers on the edge of his cup.

She raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything, instead returning a furtive glance coupled with a sheepish smile. An older man tightened his jacket and nodded to the waiter as he walked past, pulling down a flat cap and walking out the café, the jingle of the bell drawing her attention for a moment. Her coffee came, she took a sip, sighing at the feeling of warm, molten gold in her chest and the taste of cinnamon on her tongue, and when she set it back down Sam began, "So uh, I was meaning to talk to you about something today."

 _This is what I meant,_ she bit her lower lip slightly. Christelle glanced to the side as the bell hung on the door rang as another customer walked in, a teenage girl with her friend, both blonde and with fur boots, fur jackets and phones in their hands, before her eyes returned to fixing intently on him. "Yeah?"

"I… my boss offered me a round trip ticket to Paris… two of them actually," his eyes began to wander, suddenly becoming very interested in the contents of his cup even while he smiled shyly, "I was hoping for someone to share them with and uh…"

"Yes?" Christelle asked, shooting back at him her own perfect smile. "And uh what…?"

"Oh you know, I was hoping you'd..."

She giggled at her own torment of him. "Come on, spit it out, then."

"Would you like to come to Paris with me?" he asked, unsurely. "I know this is really sudden and we've only known each other a few weeks, but I- it'll only be for a month and-"

Christelle slapped his hand softly to stop him blabbering because quite frankly she had only paid attention up till 'Paris with me'. "Shut up, don't ruin the moment. So just the two of us?"

"Yes," his eyes met her's and they were ecstatic, he knew by the way she leant in, the way she grinned, the light in her eyes. "Just the two of us. So… yes?"

"Yes, of course! I-"

The bell on the door rang again as another customer walked in, a man in a trenchcoat, a snap back hat pulled low over a scarf-wrapped face and eyes hidden behind sunglasses, a bag slung over one shoulder. He looked over the café, glossing over the customers, stopping once he saw her. She saw her smile reflected in the stranger's blacked out glasses as she looked over Sam's shoulder as he looked straight at her, only at her, the cold wind sweeping in from behind him into the café and bringing with it wisps of snow that clung to the man's coat and hat. He stared at her for such a seemingly long time, before deftly setting down his bag on the nearest table and turning to leave the café.

 _Oh God._

The moment he set down his bag the world seemed to fade into silence as her heart emptied of what previous joy, uncertainty, elation, her eyes floated down to Sam as he sat with his back to the man, oblivious, mouth uttering silent words of concern. _What's wrong?_

 _Please, please let me be wrong._

The man in the trench coat left quickly and closed the door very deliberately, pulling over a table set on the curb outside and propping it against the door to block it from opening. Her heart faltered, her cheeks palled as her fears were realised. The bag was a bomb, someone was trying to kill her and every patron in the café.

Christelle Albie looked at Sam as his brows furrowed at her, confused at her silence. _How long do I have?_ The bombman knew he had seen her, blocking the door with a table wouldn't be very reliable, a strong enough push would be able to force it open, if they had time. So that meant they didn't. Under a minute, seconds probably.

"What's wrong? Is something wrong?" Her eyes flitted to him. People were going to die, she was going to die, he was going to die, if she didn't do something, there was no hope of her saving everyone but if she was fast…

Christelle reached across the table, knocking over her cinnamon latte and spilling it over and onto their laps, grabbing Sam by his collar, pulling him towards her. Caught by surprise, he barely resisted and fought back for a moment before he tensed and tried to pull away in shock. "What are you doing? Chris, please answer me!"

The waiter noticed the bag and looked out the painted window after the man, picking up the bag and pushing against the door to find the table on the other side would not budge. The other patrons looked at her strangely as Sam tried to push her off, confused. The barista raised an eyebrow and set his palms on the counter, saying something about them making a scene.

She slapped the struggling Sam, hard, fiercely enough to make his knees go weak, allowing her the one moment she needed to haul him over the counter with surprising strength. She had barely vaulted the counter before the bomb went off.

The sound came first. A sound that built from the loudest shriek you could imagine, and rose even louder to a deafening scream, blotting out every other thought from those who heard it as they grit their teeth and screwed their eyes up in pain. Then the blast, glass shattering as the windows blew out and wooden chairs and tables splintered, the top front of the counter shattering apart but the steel back withstanding and protecting Chris and Sam lying behind it. A dull series of drumming impacts as dozens of shrapnel shards, propelled by the blast, sunk into the floor, ceiling, walls, menu, the sound of a car's hover panels shrieking as it swerved and crashed outside, she was aware of the barista, front shredded by shrapnel, staggering back and slumping against the wall, sliding down and leaving a long bloody smudge on the wall, the tall tanks of coffee beans shattering open and cascades of fragrant coffee beans and coffee powder spilling over her and Sam.

Dust and splinters softly rained down upon the back of her head, pressed into Sam's white collared shirt, her head pounding with the rhythms of drums and her ruined ear drums ringing like a church bell. She could feel Sam breathing, the bones of his ribs rising and stretching, but laboured and trailing off raggedly, something was wrong. Shattered rib, collapsed lung? She opened her bleary eyes, propping herself up with her elbows on the shattered coffee tanks and sliding through the coffee beans on the floor. Cracks spread up the ceiling, the air was filled with particles of dust and coffee powder, suspended in the air, hundreds of inches long metal shards embedded wherever she looked, the walls, the chalkboard, dozens speared halfway through the steel counter's back, centimetres from her eyes. The counter had protected them from the blast and the shrapnel, except for a single long black metal shard stuck in Sam's side that had already bloomed a deep, dark red of blood that had spread across his whole chest, his eyes wound shut, mouth opening and closing as if trying to make a sound. _Punctured lung…_

 _Sam is bleeding out right now, he has a six inch long shrapnel in his chest scraping against his ribs. If you don't act now, he's going to die right here when you could have saved him._ Christelle felt a pang of fear at the sight of so much of his blood that blackened his white shirt, the metal shard missed his major arteries but it was sunk in deep. How did it hurt him? The counter had protected them, it must have bounced off the chalkboard rim, or ricocheted off the door handle, or the lamppost outside. _Remember, first course of action. Keep the patient awake, assess his health._

She tried to say something to him, keep him talking to her, keep him conscious, but her lips and tongue made the motion but she couldn't hear her own voice above the ringing. She silently asked if he was okay, his lips didn't move but his mouth opened and shut like a fish. She pressed the pale fingers of one hand onto his abdomen, her digits immediately enveloped in a shallow pool of blood welling up, her right hand worked restlessly in practiced rhythm, checking his pulse. _Too fast, too weak._ His head was lolling from side to side, as if trying to deny something. Her hand reached forward to open one of his eyelids, _Pupils dilated. He's going into shock._

The ringing had begun to fade away, now replaced by car alarms and screams, people running outside. Sam's eyes spun around wildly, focussing on her briefly. His chest strained as he tried to say something, before coughing up a few specks of red that splattered her cheek and white blouse. He groaned, "Ugh… what… Chris, I…"

He strained to sit up, wincing visibly, looking down at his midsection. His eyes widened, his voice broke as he muttered, "Oh God, oh God help me."

 _God's not available at the moment, please take a number and the nurse will attend to you. Humour? Now? Bad timing, brain_. Chris laid her free right hand on his temple, softly easing him back. "Shhh, don't get up, Sam, just lie down like that, and tell me how you feel."

"It hurts, I can feel it when I breathe," his hands were flexing open and closed, his breathing speeding up. She took her right hand away, leaving a handprint of his own blood on his face, and went to check his pulse again. "Chris." He grabbed her wrist tightly, desperately. "I… I… what's going on?"

"There's been a gas explosion in the café, the counter shattered and you've got a flesh wound. Nothing serious," she said to him with the authenticity as if it were true. "There's an ambulance coming right now, until then just keep talking to me."

Her left hand pressed into the wound was by now wrapped in a warm, wet cushion of dark crimson blood. His dilated pupils tried to focus on her, his pulse was getting faster. Sam shook his head again, more as if his head was rolling from side to side. "Ugh…"

"Don't fall asleep, Sam, we're going to Paris together, remember?"

He muttered, "You… Chris…"

She patted his cheek softly to keep him roused, leaving a few bloody prints on his cheek. "Sam, Sam? Don't fall asleep, stay awake and keep talking to me. We're going together, aren't we?"

He was going into shock, the next course of action now would be to put him into a drug coma so he could safely subject him to on-field cell regeneration, but at the moment she didn't have her old Caduceus Staff, so that wasn't an option. She would have to wait for the ambulances to come. A long moan emitting from him like a dying creature, which he could very well be. _No, don't think about that. Be professional, you've assessed the situation, keep pressure on the wound. What do you have to do now?_

She had hopefully addressed the problem of him dying, at least temporarily, now there was the problem of her own situation, someone had just tried to kill Christelle Albie in a London café with a bomb, and in the process killed what, thirteen other people? Just like Hanzo, but she had survived unscathed. At least she couldn't see the other bodies, the counter hiding the mess their bodies had no doubt been reduced to. Someone was trying to kill her, very messily and conspicuously, someone very desperate, or very angry, had tried to kill her.

Her right hand slipped into her pocket and pulled out her phone, an older model without the new fancy holographic interfaces, pulling up a list of emergency contacts, a very small list with barely a dozen numbers. Her fingers slid and left messy red smudges on the crystal screen, but finally she selected the one she needed.

 _Someone tried to kill Christelle Albie, s_ he pressed her phone's screen against her cheek, leaving more bloody smudges onto her pale skin as well. Over the ringing of her call she could hear the sirens in the distance, she whispered to Sam, "You hear that? We'll be safe soon, they'll bring you to a hospital and you'll be fine, just stay awake a while for me."

Sam muttered something so soft she couldn't make it out, she would have asked him what he meant had the man she was calling not picked up. A voice, a contact she had not heard for years.

"Hello?"

He sounded much older than when she'd last talked to him, but the last time she talked to him she still had a different name.

"Mr. Clint, it's uh, it's... Christelle Albie."

"Ah, Angela, how have you been? I was meaning to contact you actually, Madame Amari wants to speak to you, something about Hanzo Shimada."

"I suppose I'll have to talk to her too. I have a situation Mr. Clint, it appears Hanzo and I find ourselves in similar predicaments."

"Oh. Well then, would you like me to make you disappear again?"

She looked back down at Sam, unconscious now, breathing slow and gasping. Whoever wanted her dead would hardly be slowed by it, but she supposed Sam deserved some sort of excuse to what she was going to do.

"Yes, Mr. Clint, please."

"Very well. As of December 16th, year 2101, Christelle Albie, 29 years of age, died in a gas explosion. Congratulations, Angela Ziegler, welcome back."

* * *

So, if you aren't aware, Angela Ziegler is the name of Mercy, Overwatch hero and annoying resurector to anyone who's played the beta. Hope you all enjoyed the chapter, leave a review on what you thought and until the next one, ciao!


	5. Black, Thomas

Okay, new chapter guys, I'm quite liking how it's turning out so far, hope you all enjoy this one!

* * *

Salt, iron, ammonia, the air here was rank with it, so overpowering in his lung that he could still smell it over the taste of his own blood.

The choked light from a single white eye overhead, the wind chilled his sweat and blood-streaked skin in arcs of cold and hot over his aching body where he had been struck. He sat cowed over, blood dripping from the tip of his nose and tapping on the knee of his pants leg, kicking weakly, his hands gone limp where they were tied onto the armrests.

"Let's try this again."

A grabbed the back of his collar, roughly yanking him upright. His head lolled back, panting hard, his eyes screwed shut, body worn thin by hours of torment he had lost count of. He whimpered, "Please, I don't know, please, I don't know…"

A punch, like buckshot to his gut, sent him keeling forward in his chair into another bout of weakness, white spots in his eyes, his legs going limp and cold as he vomited again, acrid bile splattering the ground between his feet and staining his knees. The voice snarled, "Tokyo. Tell me why."

The voice was not a man, for no man could ever sound so evil, so cold, so metallic, deep and menacing with a rough growl behind it, like a wolf imitating a man's voice, but even a wolf would have stopped torturing him hours ago when it had realised he knew nothing.

He coughed up a glob of spit and bile, forcing out through clenched teeth, "I've already told you all I… all I know, please, let me go…"

Rough hands latched onto his shoulders and slammed him upright again, his head sinking forward again as footsteps rang out on the flat stone floor. The voice sounded off, "Thomas Black, 26, American, Massachusetts. Father, Bruce Young, deceased, mother, Susanne Toddson. Stock broker. Talon."

He nodded fervently as he listened to his captor pacing behind his chair, hoping to escape punishment for whatever crime he must have committed he bluttered, "Yes, I'm Talon, but I just run numbers, please, I don't know whatever it is you're asking!"

A pause, nothing more than the wind howling and the waves crashing far away. Then the voice came again, "Tell me why."

Thomas tried to look back at the voice's owner, his eyes pleading, "I don't know, please, I don't know I don't know I don't-"

A single blow, a gauntlet of steel that came swinging down onto his arm tied to the armrest, crushing his wrist bones with audible snaps, turning whimpers to screams, burning Thomas' hoarse throat as his cries echoed away into the long night.

Even as his hand lay there on the now bent arm chair, clawed and twitching spasmodically sending arcs of pain up his arm, his captor grabbed the back of Thomas' hair, pulling his head back painfully to look his tormentor in the eyes, a red glow casted over his features as he was forced to look up, shaking and struggling, at the face of his captor, a red visor that burnt its image into his retinas, a mask of black metal over his face, the skin of his brow was pale and creased, deep scars running across his skin and his hair white as ash. His red visor like a pit of fire as he forced Thomas to stare into the depths of its glow, making the whimpering captive beg softly, incomprehensible in his terror. He looked up at his captor, each scar upon his skin, each scratch upon his mask, painted with red shadow from the light of his visor as he loomed over, drenching them both in crimson.

76 growled, "One hand broken, that's a hundred and ninety three bones left for me to snap. Tokyo, what do you know."

Thomas was shaking now, trying to tear away but his tormentor held fast his head there, searing his red slash into the young man's being. He felt tears of fear, his throat blocking up even as he forced out the words, "I don't know anything, please…"

76 held the crying, shuddering man there, Thomas saw nothing in the red light, not remorse, not anger, not pity, not hatred, not mercy, not contempt. Nothing, just a fierce, scarlet light, and behind it was not a man, instead was an old wolf with its teeth at his throat.

Then he let go, letting Thomas slump down in his chair, the terrorist stepping away, turning his back. "You don't know."

It wasn't a matter of realisation, just a simple fact bluntly stated at long last. Thomas nodded desperately, above the pain he felt a shred of hope, wincing as he looked at the figure of 76, the same numbers on the back of his jacket in white. "Yes! I don't know anything, I just ran numbers for Talon, I never met who I was working with, I never knew their names or-"

"I can't keep you here any longer, then."

Thomas could hardly believe what he was hearing. He asked hopefully, "…so… you'll let me go?"

A horn, far away, a ship's foghorn roaring out over the waves, wind screaming that tousled his sweat slick hair and chilled his wet skin. 76 glanced back. "Yes... I'll let you go."

"Wait!"

Screeching as the chair's metal topped feet scraped against the stone floor, 76 dragging the chair and man attached to it with one hand, marching to the edge of the platform.

"What are you doing? Stop, please! I already told you everything I know! You said-"

76 swung the chair forward and around so it teetered over the edge of the platform, Thomas forced to look over the edge into the gloom of the ocean hundreds of feet below, wind shrieking at him and tearing at his cheeks. Thomas was struggling like a bait fish now, blabbering, "No, no, please, you said you'd let me go! Please! You said you'd let me go! Don't do this!"

The grizzled figure leaned forward, growling lowly, "You're Talon, if I let you go you'll sing a song to your keepers about me."

Shaking his head, furiously, sweat dripping off and splattering his jacket sleeves. "No! Fuck Talon! They can burn in hell! A bunch of terrorist cunts, fuck them all! Please!"

A jerk as he tipped a bit further over, his chair now tipping only on two legs balanced on the edge of the stone platform. Sea spray rose up from far below, streaking across his face, there was a painfully bright light directly under the platform, circling it slowly.

"Give me two days! I can arrange meetings, deliver Talon men to you, kill them!"

Soldier 76 leaned forward, the red light of his visor pouring over his shoulder, painting his bloodied and vomit stained front. He didn't look at Thomas. His voice, dark, brooding, malicious, "I'll give you one chance, Talon, if not you'll end up a bloody stain at the bottom of a lighthouse, unless you answer me this."

"What? Anything, please…"

A pause, 76 bent his gaze slightly, making Thomas wince with the red light of his eyes. "Can little Talon birds fly?"

And then he let him go.

* * *

Okay, so that's Soldier 76's intro. We had the hardest time trying to write this one, along with one for Tracer which would round out the stories for the remaining members of the old Overwatch. I decided to write on a prompt Bol came up with of Soldier 76 as the specter of Jack Morrison, what's left of a hero when you burn away all the hope and all the morals in the furnace of failure, just a cruel, determined old man with nothing left to lose.

Well, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, a bit short yeah but took a while to write. Leave a review on what you thought and until next time, ciao!


	6. Oxton, Lena

Wew, so new chapter, this will be the first one where Overwatch members are together after so many years. Enjoy!

* * *

Lena Oxton, call sign: Tracer, leaned against the side of the taxi, the smell of cheap air freshener and musky leather blunting her senses as she looked out the window, watching beads of rain slide down and back as the taxi rumbled down the asphalt road, the dark, rain slicked countryside rolling by.

As the car rattled on, a little bobblehead of some Bollywood-looking character nodded spastically. Lena gave a yawn, pulling her hoodie closer and letting her head fall against the cool window, eyes sleepy from the several hour long journey from her apartment in Liverpool, most of it in taxis which she rode until the drivers began to recognise her even despite the bomber jacket and hood under which she tucked her iconic locks.

The taxi driver, a port Indian man with the accent of a London native, reached up and tilted his mirror so he could see his passenger, asked, "So, what's a pretty little lady doing in the country at this hour?"

She perked up, glancing at him and giving a practiced shrug. "Ah, you know, crazy night and all, friend calls at one in the morning asking me to find her in the middle of the countryside."

Over a decade of discretion hiding in your own homeland allows one to acquire a repertoire of lies and stories to anyone who asked about her strangely familiar face. Lena heard the man give a little chuckle, shaking his head and eyes drifting back to the road. "My son's just the same, thinks with his arse and ends up arseholed in a canal by morning. At least you've got a sensible dome on your shoulders."

"Heh, I'd hardly call it sensible," she scoffed, before letting loose another gaping yawn, watching another car hover past them on the lonely road, its headlights blurred by the countless water streaks. The rain beat a ceaseless rhythm on the roof of the car, a thousand dancers tapping away on the metal surface.

"Hmph." The driver glanced back at her. "You work?"

"Well, I'm sort of in between jobs at the moment, been living off my savings for a while."

"Is that so? Well I have a friend…" The indian driver reached into the glove pocket and after a moment of rummaging, produced a business card which he held over his shoulder. "He's a manager for a hotel down in London, a pretty young face like yours could find a lot of work if you know where to look."

Lena took the card without reading it, nodding, "I'm sorry, love, but I'm positively knackered at the moment and talking's a bit tiring for me at the moment."

"No worries, we should be nearly there by now."

It wasn't that she wasn't particularly fond of the cab driver, he seemed like a nice person and any other time she'd be up for a nice spot of conversation, but in light of recent events she didn't feel very open at the moment, in fact she felt rather defensive, the hands inside her jacket resting lightly on the handle of a pistol she had stolen before she left, just in case.

A light on the horizon, the mansion was coming up. She sat up hurriedly, "Here will do."

"You sure? It's a good hike up to the nearest house, there's a mansion down the road I can-"

"No worries, chap, here will do."

She pulled out a worn leather wallet and counted out a wad of notes. The Indian man turned around in his seat to take the money, eyes furrowing as he focussed on her again. "Wait, don't I know you from somewhere? Your face seems awful familiar…"

"Doubt it," Tracer gave a mock two finger salute out of instinct. "Cheers love."

"Doubt it, cheers love."

Tracer stepped out into the rain and it now beat mercilessly against her hood and jacket, soaking her through in an instant, she popped up the cuffs of her bomber jacket and pulled close the edges of her hood. She watched the taxi growl with a purr as it hovered away, the blue glow of its hover panels and pale headlights casting long lines over the ground. Only when its growl had died away and its glow had disappeared over the horizon did her tense muscles relax and she let out a sigh of relief. There were ears everywhere, and if he recognised her…

The mansion's lights were a dot on the horizon, a good several kilometres away. She pulled back her hood, shaking her flattened hair out into its teased spikes before they were promptly soaked by the rain, she zipped open her pilot's jacket, lighting up the world around her with an electric blue light from the white metal and superhard polymer contraption on her chest. She could feel its warmth, its heat against her ribs, even as the rain immediately soaked her through and froze her skin.

She flexed her gloved fingers, stretching her calves as she warmed up muscles that had grown stiff over the long car trip. Her eyes flitted down to the blue contraption strapped to her chest that pulsed softly in tandem with her heartbeat. "Come on, baby, let's do this."

Lena Oxton squared her feet in the grass, feeling the mud squelching around her sneakers, a beep as she started her stopwatch, a whoosh, a boom of air as it rushed to fill in the space left behind as the world around her stretched into long lines of electric blue and black.

* * *

Lena Oxton staggered up to the ornate black iron gates of the mansion, panting hard, feeling the cold streaks of rain running down her cheeks and her wet hair slicked back by the force of the wind, her burning calves splattered with mud and grass and her sneaker soles worn through.

She leaned heavily against the gates, not caring about the cameras she couldn't see in the dark that focussed on her. The back of her head fell back against the stone tower next to the gate, she lifted up her watch to check the blue led display. "2 minutes 17 seconds… I'm getting slow…"

Up the driveway was a further forty metre trek up to the porch of the mansion, where the lights were ablaze and above it were four rows of tall burning windows through the rain. She didn't bother trying to vault the gate, if Johnson was home, which he undoubtedly was, then the automated defences were active tonight.

A buzz, a voice on a speaker attached to the stones of the gate. The omnic butler himself, Johnson's posh and a voice fit for the halls of Birmingham piqued, "Good evening, Ms. Oxton."

She smiled, soaked and freezing as she was, happy to hear the voice of such an old friend. "Evenin', Jonny. Nice weather for a hike, eh?"

"Indeed, Ms. Oxton, please do hurry, it seems you're late, ironic considering, and the rest are very impatient to begin."

A beep, a red light flashed and the gates began to swing inwards slowly. Lena waved at the nearest camera, beaming. The gang was waiting in there for her, her whole family, the only family she had left were waiting for her.

* * *

Tracer burst into the study room, leaving muddy, wet footprints on the marble, feeling the cold air chill her skin even more to the bone, her sopping jacket hanging loose and heavy on her skin and her hair now fallen messily to frame her face.

The room was drenched in golden light and the walls were lined with bookshelves crammed with volumes, the marble floor covered by a rich red Moroccan rug. Her smile hung on her face as she looked over the occupants of the room, faltering the slightest bit as she counted off how many people there were. McCree, a stubbled, dark figure reclining on a longue chair in the shadow of the walls of bookshelves, his cloak wet and his hat resting on his lap, uncovering a head of messy brown locks. Across from him was a woman in a white blouse and jeans, young seemingly, with long, straight hair of a rich shade of brown-black like smoked oak, but her face, the soft features that framed those wide grey eyes, betraying the identity of Angela Ziegler, Mercy, sitting on a tall-backed chair with a book in her lap, quietly brooding.

Then there was the woman herself, Madame Amari, in her wheelchair behind a stained wood desk. An ancient woman, white hair tied up in a loose bun, her tanned skin crossed with more wrinkles and valleys than before, her gown hiding the wounds of her final firefight. The stocky chair wheezed and hissed as it breathed each breath of air for her, a drip led from her backrest to her wrist as well as a collection of other tubes more hidden away. Her eyes, one with a tattoo of the Eye of Ra stretching down her cheek, those sniper's eyes focussing on Lena like a hawk.

McCree stood up first, setting his hat down on the longue chair as he walked up to Lena, grinning broadly. "Tracer!"

She lunged at him, laughing high and clear, tacking him in a vice grip, "Cowboy! How've you been, you old mucker! New Boston done you well?"

"Ah, well enough, sorry I didn't call, gangs kept me occupied for the most part." He looked good for a man pushing fifty, bounty hunting had kept him in shape. "You then?"

She shrugged, "Ah, nothing as exciting as you, living in an apartment's not as boring after the first eighteen months."

Angela got up quietly, smiling sheepishly as she walked up. Lena's eyes widened as she scoffed, "Hah, is that my Angie? I couldn't recognise you with that dyejob!" She ran a hair through Angela's straight hair, a far cry from her platinum blonde ponytail of old. "Looks good, you look great."

That wasn't exactly true, while she looked amazingly young for a forty year old, props to the cell regeneration tech she had been in contact with for years, she wasn't exactly in the best state as of now, a red scar on her cheekbone, scrapes on her palms, dark eyebags on her pale cheeks, her nose was red and her shot grey eyes were filled with a quiet, mournful sadness, punctuated by the strangely strong smell of coffee.

Lena wrapped her jacket arms tightly around Angela's cold shoulders, pulling her close into an embrace, not saying any words, just letting the dark melancholy in her frame disperse over the two of them with the cold proximity of Tracer's embrace.

Angela pulled away first, smiling though it barely reached her eyes. "Thanks, I guess I needed that."

The German tinge was almost gone from her voice, replaced by the hint of an English accent.

McCree, Angela, Amari… Tracer looked around, her smile remaining on her face but the corner of her lip twitching slightly as she realised the circumstances of the moment. "This is it? I recall there being more of us…"

A moment of silence as the cowboy and Mercy looked away, Madame Amari tapped a single fingertip on her polished desk's surface, in a voice made of age worn sand and backed with iron, "And that is why I have called you all here. Please take a seat and we can begin."

* * *

This took way too long to pin down how to write, hope you all enjoyed, leave a review on what you thought and until next time!


	7. Shimada, Ruri

Hi guys, this is Bol, co-writer of this story. PassiveBot has exams so he hasn't had a chance to write and so did I, and honestly I'm pretty sure I spent a bit too much time writing this story rather than studying as he did. I hope you all like this new chapter!

* * *

Ruri Shimada stood in the living room, drenched in the morning's light, a fur-lined black bath robe hanging on her shoulders as her front was drenched by the cold light of a large flat-screen television, her skin coloured shades of black and white by the news report as she glared at the image of the Tokyo skyline, and Shimada United Tower crowned in flames, standing amid the light of blue and white sirens.

Her hands were clammy and numb as she held the holographic handset, her fingers cold as she dialled without looking a number onto the glowing blue hardlight. Her eyes followed the words on the bottom of the screen, focussing, fixating on one word that scrolled past.

 _Hanzo_.

The phone in her hands rang softly, buzzing into her skin with each vibration and sending warm shivers down her spine. She wrapped her soft robe more tightly around her shoulders as she crossed her arms, watching the scene cut away to a shot of ambulances with open doors, stretchers with red stained suits being rolled past, black clothed men with guns running in the opposite direction as they filed through the shattered doors into the tower.

The Sun's pale light streamed in through the high windows that formed the side of the living room, gleaming off the water of the huge water feature that the driveway up to the mansion ringed around. Ruri stood between the television and a white satin couch, listening to the sound of the news report of her husband's shooting.

The phone stopped ringing, Ruri pressed the holographic handset to the side of her face through a curtain of jet black hair to hear the sound of an older woman's voice speaking in Japanese. "Hamasaki Institution-"

"Hello, headmistress, this is Madame Oshiro," using her maiden name.

"…oh, Madame Oshiro, I heard about what…"

Ruri closed her eyes, turning away from the television and walking towards the glass wall to look out over the grounds bathed in the morning Sun, pouring over the grey stone walls and shining over the twenty metre wide water feature, watching the ripples travel across the water surface serenely. Further down the driveway, at the entrance to the grounds, two black suited men, guards under her employ, flanked the crimson laser gates. They were making some motions to someone on the other side, someone hidden by the glow of the glowing laser lines. After a moment, she asked, "Does my daughter know what happened yet?"

"No, she doesn't."

"Let it stay that way, I want to be the one to tell her. I will have her picked up from your school, get her things packed and have her ready to leave in half an hour."

The headmistress said readily, "Yes, Mrs. Shimada, of course."

The handset began to flash, there was a call on another line. Ruri thanked the headmistress and hung up, answering the other call. "This is Madame Oshiro."

A voice, this time in Eastern European-accented English, "Hello, Mrs. Shimada, my name is Agent Sinns, I'm at your front door. Me and my associates are with the UN. Your husband asked for us to keep you and your daughter safe before the incident at Shimada United. If you would kindly ask your men to let us through, we can discuss the details."

She calmly replied in an accented voice of iron, "My husband did no such thing. I apologise for your reception at the gates, but you would understand if I do not let strangers into my household, considering recent events."

The moment she heard the news she had ordered the grounds secured and no one to be let through the gates under any circumstances.

"Ma'am, I understand your concern, but believe me, your husband did ask for us to keep you safe. We believe he was targeted by terrorists on account of his past contributions with the UN as an agent of Overwatch."

Ruri Shimada heard the name Overwatch and took another breath to keep herself collected. It was either because Overwatch, or their family name and empire, that Hanzo was attacked.

"I've shown your men my badge, please let us in Mrs. Shimada."

She inhaled deeply, felt the tingle of the hardlight phone in her cold fingers, and replied, "Badges can be forged, names can be thrown around, but you will not convince me, whoever you are, UN or not."

The man on the other line was audibly confused. "I don't think you understand, Mrs. Shimada, we're here to help you. Keep you safe."

"It's not my concern what you think," she replied. "The Shimada Clan can protect its own, we do not need the UN."

"Mrs. Shimada, the Tokyo incident proves otherwise-"

Ruri tensed up.

"-and your husband reached out to _us_ , and asked _us_ to protect you so please, let us do our job."

"I think it is in your best interest to leave now, Mr. Sinns, you and your associates. Shimada does not need your help, we do not need your protection, do not contact me or my daughter, or I will have my men remove you."

A long pause. "Mrs. Shimada, might I remind you that you are threatening a representative of the UN."

"I understand, and I hope you don't need me to repeat myself. Goodbye."

A beep as hardlight interface retracted itself into a small comma-shaped black disc, leaving the sound of a news reporter listing casualties as the only sound. She loosened her grip on the disc, which had coloured the surrounding skin white with the force she had gripped it with, and removed it from her right palm, holding it between her fingertips, a digital blue '97' blinking on the black surface. 97 unopened voice mails. She watched shadows play across the glow of the crimson laser gate as the UN representatives drove away, no doubt taking a position a good distance away to keep surveillance on the mansion.

Ruri Shimada turned around to return to the news report, stalling midstep as her gaze was drawn to a figure whose dark image now dominated the room, a man standing on the other end of the living room, blue jeans, red jacket with hood pulled low, black scarf pulled up over his mouth, a dirty, unfamiliar dark blot in her pristine home of black and white shades.

She breathed in deeply, eyes fixed on the figure standing across from her, balling her hands into fists. They weren't numb anymore. She raised her chin, speaking in Japanese, "Who are you? How did you get in?"

The figure raised his gloved hands, one curling around the edge of his hood, the other around the hem of his scarf, pulling back and down to reveal a face of chrome edges broken by a slash of green light.

The tension left Ruri's shoulders as for the first time since she turned on the television she felt safe, walking forward and setting the black phone disc on the white couch armrest. "Genji, hello."

He nodded to her, replying in fluent Japanese with a voice that sounded young even through the metallic tones. "Ruri, it's been a while. Kaida?"

"Safe, as of now."

Genji didn't make a motion towards either of the couches at his sides. He clearly didn't intend to stay long. The younger Shimada slowly walked over to the television, hand softly brushing over the screen. "He was more your family than mine, but..." A mechanical whirr as he turned to face her, "Do you know anything about it? Why it happened? Who was it?"

Ruri furrowed her brows, she wasn't accustomed to feeling powerless, shaking her head. "Before it happened he didn't call me or message me. I received the news from one of my guards."

He turned away from the television to face her. "So nothing? Nothing at all?"

She paused, "…Before you came, there were men claiming there were from the UN."

"The ones at the gates?"

"Yes, they said before the bombing, Hanzo had contacted them, asked them to keep me and Kaida safe."

Genji nodded, thoughtful. A lead. It was something. He said thankfully, "I will find out the truth."

Ruri stood up, brushing her hair aside so he could clearly look her in her eyes. She was not one to cry and weep, but still he could see the sorrow and loss seared into her iron. She stated adamantly, "You know the truth. Someone tried to kill my husband, your brother by blood. I want you to find out who they are, hunt them down and kill them."

"Ruri…"

She walked towards him, fingers curling. "No reservation, no hesitation, no mercy. I am a Shimada by marriage to your brother, but you are Shimada by blood, the Dragon is your heritage. And Dragons do not deal in mercy."

He reached out to her as if to touch her shoulder but she instead grabbed his hand. She felt the hard metal of his wrist through the fabric of his glove and the sleeve of his jacket, the heat of his cold skin against her own. "Swear to me, Genji, when you find the man who hurt Hanzo, you will kill them."

"Ruri-"

"Swear to me."

She looked hard into his visor, the soft glow of green, the white sheen as light glanced off the glass, the faintest image of eyes within. Through the glow of emerald in its steel embrace, she felt a pang of emotions in the tortured gaze. The same mourning, loss, the same burning desire to avenge.

And so when Genji finally replied her, it wasn't the words he said that assured Ruri Shimada.

* * *

The purpose of this story has always been to create a living, breathing Overwatch world that was real, and a world like this needs people beyond their heroes. This is a real problem with Overwatch fanfics, with their heroes already with such character and personality implemented by Blizzard themselves, making OCs with enough character to stand up to existing heroes is a challenge. I hope our Ruri Shimada, wife of Hanzo Shimada, was a suitable OC, she took long enough to write.

Leave a review on what you thought, and until the next chapter, cheers!


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